


The cure

by Anonymous



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bondage, Dirty Talk, F/M, Healing Sex, Missing Scene, Rough Sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on LJ: "I just want to see Natasha riding Clint hard, and Clint fucking her as hard as he can. Just hot, rough sex between the two, and lots of dirty talk!"</p><p>Or, how Clint recovered from being compromised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The cure

"Nat..."  
  
Barely more than a gasp, from the man strapped to the bunk by his wrists and ankles. Natasha turns from securing the door, not wanting anyone else to see what he's going through.  
  
"Nat...help me..."  
  
She stands just out of what his range would be if his arms were free and looks in his eyes. The whitish film signifying Loki's spell flickers out for a second and she sees him, sees Clint.  
  
"Help me get rid of it," he pants, arms straining against the straps. "Get rid of him."  
  
But then the film returns and his expression falls back into an empty, grim expression.  
  
Natasha shivers. This is why he's restrained, because Thor believes that only time can rid him of the poison Loki filled him with. A few seconds of lucidity is not enough to warrant his freedom.  
  
"Nat," he mutters, even as the spell overcomes him yet again. The next minute he's back to begging, but Natasha won't leave him, regardless of her horror at this possession.  
  
She sits on the bench opposite, watching him alternating between struggle and despair, and realizes after a while that he's more coherent.  
  
She goes to stand as close to the edge of safe as she dares. He fixes his eyes on her, arms and legs tugging restlessly, and when the film slips away he says desperately, "Help me...work it out...Nat..."  
  
"Work it out?" she whispers. Like a cloud, the white thickens over his eyes again and he snarls, inarticulate. She waits it out and the next time Clint surfaces he rasps, "Do it, Nat. Get him out of my blood. Out of my head."  
  
"How?" She steps a bit closer and he surges up, shoulders twisting uselessly against the bed.  
  
"Can't wait," he mutters. "Takes too long...have to shake it..."  
  
"It'll take as long as it takes," Natasha snaps. "You're no good to us if you can't function. You, yourself, Clint. Hang in."  
  
It sounds weak and empty and she hates not having anything to do but watch him writhe.

 

The next time his eyes clear he looks her dead straight in the eye and says urgently, "Adrenaline, Nat. Need to kick up the heat."

  
His head drops back and he simply lies there, breathing hard, limbs slack. The cloud is back; it stays far too long, long enough that she sinks back onto the bench and lets her mind whirl with guessing at what he means.  
  
Clint's eyes - his own eyes - finally meet hers again and he says, "Gotta burn it out. Push it to the limit...heart rate..."  
  
"You think - exertion will speed up the process," she ventures and Clint nods almost frantically. "I can't release you, Clint. I can't take that chance."  
  
His head drops back again in frustration and she hears him say, "Fuck."  
  
She can't say that hadn't occurred to her.  
  
"Clint."  
  
He won't look at her.   
  
"Clint, listen to yourself. Fuck."  
  
"What?" he whines. His head rolls to face her and she steps right up to the bed, takes his face between her hands.  
  
"Push your heart rate up," she hisses. "Adrenaline. Fucking."  
  
Clint's mouth drops open and there's one moment of hope, then the mask descends again and he's muttering again. Natasha checks the integrity of the restraints, quickly, then she leaps lightly to straddle his thighs as he stares balefully at her.  
  
She doesn't waste time explaining, but tackles his belt and the fastenings on his trousers, yanking them open and his strap down far enough to bare his cock and balls. At least that part of his body seems to be on task; he's so hard it's got to be painful.  
  
His hips rise off the bed and Natasha glances up, sees Clint in his eyes, and pulls his clothes down further, to mid-thigh. Now he's cleared for action, but she slides off him for a moment to peel down her suit, pushing it down as far as her boots along with her thong.  
  
In a flash, she's back on top of him.  
  
"I know what you need," she says, even though she can tell the poison has gripped him again. She almost doesn't care. She knows a hand job or a blowjob isn't going to be enough; she knows this man, this body, what he's capable of, how far she can push him.  
  
She needs this too.   
  
Rising to her knees, Natasha plants her hands on Clint's biceps, trying to keep him from bucking her off or head butting her, and in the few moments he pauses for breath she seizes his cock and shoves it between her legs. Once it's in, she grabs his arms again and thrusts down, hard, feeling him slam home deep inside her.  
  
Clint's head jerks upward, his mouth open, his eyes riveted on her face as she starts to ride him.  
  
"Just like this," she says in a low tone. "Hard and fast and mindless, right, Clint? Just like after a mission goes south, and we'd have to take it out on each other. Burn each other up, like gasoline on a bonfire."  
  
"Yes," he groans, snapping his hips up into her. The light flickers in his eyes and then steadies. "Fucking and...biting...and slapping...like..." His wrists are raw from sawing against the straps. "Like animals..."  
  
She stops watching his eyes, even though the clear and the white seem to be evening out, turns her gaze on his mouth as he mutters and groans, the stretch of his neck and arms as he strains and thrusts.  
  
"You're mine," Natasha growls at him. "He can't have you. Hear that, asshole? Clint Barton is mine. Get out of his head. Come on, Clint, fuck him out of there, do it, I know you can do it..."  
  
She's fallen into a rhythm now, like riding a horse, a steady pounding, so she lets go of him long enough to whip her bra off, throwing it on the floor.  
  
"Like the last time," she pants, hands grabbing at her breasts, pulling at her nipples, squeezing and pinching. "Remember? I marked you, everywhere, and you sucked me till I was sore...could barely touch my tits for a week...so good..."  
  
"Yessssss..." he hisses. He's managed to bend his knees a little, to put more of his strength into his upthrust. His eyes are clear, staring at her hands as she gropes herself.  
  
"You covered me with your come," she goes on, as if chanting. "Tits, ass, belly, in my hair...you filled every hole and then started over...and that's what we're going to do here, baby, I don't care if it takes a week, you want to burn, how hot do you want it..."

 

"Nat..." he gasps. His shoulders and feet are shoved against the hard bed, all his strength going into the frantic pistoning of his hips. She's never felt him so deep, so hard. She wants so badly to come, but this isn't about her, and she just goes on and on, riding him until her knees ache with bending and her thighs are stretched too tight and he's fucking the very center of her being.  
  
Unbelievably, she feels his body tighten even further, his cock swelling thicker, and when at last he comes it seems never to end. His head is thrown back, he lets out a cry of triumph and anguish, and Natasha drops forward to sink her teeth into the curve of his shoulder.  
  
They hold still and hard against each other, exhausted, and Natasha's sex is throbbing in equal parts pain and pleasure. Her head is lying on his chest when she hears him say, quietly, "Hey."  
  
She lifts her head to see that he's back, and she smiles, wearily.  
  
"There you are," she murmurs.


End file.
